Oof! Hands and knees meet cold concrete. Scrape.
Rats! My foot catches on my long skirt, ripping the hem, tangling the loose fabric around my boot. Twist. For Verity’s sake!
I try to stand, but the desire is much too optimistic. I’m a jumble of legs and arms in this ridiculous Second Reflection getup. Joshua’s jacket is gargantuan, swallowing me, only adding to my incoordination. Too much fabric equals me on my rear, salted sidewalk grating my palms.
Ebony—surprise, surprise—stands on all twos, shoulders squared and head erect. No sign she was recently sucked through a window, then catapulted onto a wintry sidewalk.
Ugh. How am I related to this person? And why did she get the better end of everything?
When at last I disentangle my skirt hem, I glance around. It’s as if I never left. Same brick apartment building across the street. Same Manhattan aroma—smoggy, overcrowded city meets basil and roasted nuts. But where’d Ky go? He was just here. Or did I imagine him?
My heart thunders as I make it to my feet. My breaths pant and fog. I whip left, right. If he’s not really here, where do I look? I wouldn’t even know where to start—
“Helllloooo.” Ebony waves her hand in front of my face. “If you’re going to have a nervous breakdown, can we at least go inside?” She rubs her arms in a dramatic, Quinn-like fashion. Doesn’t bother to comment on my awesome Amulet show back there. “I’m freezing.”
I open my mouth to speak, but no sound emerges. It’s official. Voice is toast. Man, does my right arm smart.
I purse my lips and offer a quick nod, then I take the brownstone steps two at a time. Like most people, we have a spare key. But instead of hiding it under the mat—because, duh—we keep it somewhere inconspicuous. Obvious, but not. The door’s knocker is loose, and when I lift it the backing pulls away just enough to release a single silver key. It pings to the cement and I snatch it, thrust it in the lock, and turn the bolt.
When I open the door, Ebony shoves past me and makes a beeline for the first-floor restroom to the right of the foyer. But me? I take my time, lingering in the space between outside and in.
This is home.
I’m home.
I inhale, long and deep. The house smells different, forgotten and unattended, resting beneath a layer of dust. But somehow it’s the same too. A combination of me and Mom, the scents of oil paint, canvas, sheet music, and veggie stir-fry all present. Or maybe it’s my memory making it seem so. Either way it doesn’t matter.
Because I’m home.
The flush of the toilet alerts me Ebony’s about to emerge, so I book it up the stairs. I’m in total need of an introverted moment, and my extroverted half sis won’t allow for many. I turn the crystal doorknob and slip inside my room, then push the door closed with my rear.
Click. Sigh.
The space is just as I left it. Inside-out tees strewn across the hardwood floor. Space heater stretching into the room’s center. I almost trip on the cord as I cross to my bed. Once I’m there, the cushy mattress giving beneath my weight, I can’t help but lie down. Close my eyes. Breathe.
Why can’t I sleep through times like these? No worries. No responsibility. No Void or Verity or Ky or Joshua. No Callings or Thresholds or death or losing my voice or getting shot in the knee or feeling as if my arm will fall off. Just sleep. Rest. Nothing.
Nothing. At. All.
The stairs creak beyond the door and I cringe, my fingers clutching my rumpled sheets. I expect Ebony to interrupt my momentary relief, but her footsteps fade down the hallway. Probably headed to Mom’s room in search of clothing. Knowing Ebony, she’ll be all bright and fresh before I find a clean pair of jeans.
And that’s my cue.
Whining and rolling my neck, I peel myself off the bed. At my dresser I dig, open, shut, slam, rummage. Where are all my clothes? At least half are missing. I decide on a short-sleeve Mets tee and a pair of black skinny—but not too skinny—jeans. I slip out of Joshua’s jacket and the remainder of my layers. Ah. Much better. Who knew I missed modern clothing so much?
A plaid shirt hangs from a hook on the back of the door. I grab it and tie it around my waist. One hand on the knob, I pause. A small mirror rests on top of my dresser. I rarely used the mirror, and even then it was in small spurts. It’s upside down and half shoved beneath a stack of way-overdue homework. Did anyone at school even notice I was missing, or did they think I moved away?
I picture the jerk-wads from Upper West Prep. Nope. They definitely didn’t notice my absence. Not unless they ran out of people to bully. And then they’d be like, “Hey, what happened to the girl with that ugly thing on her face?”
I bite my lower lip and return to my dresser. If they only knew just how awesome this “ugly thing” on my face turned out to be.
Or rather, how awesome it was. Sure I created a façade, but the accomplishment is minuscule compared to all we’ve lost. All we’re still losing.
I pick up the mirror, turn it toward me. Hold it at arm’s length. Hmm. My hair is a disaster, all flyaways and cowlicks curling away from my temples. Seems unfitting with the mirrorglass crown resting there. My complexion is oily and pale. Purple half-moons droop beneath my tired eyes.
A knock at the door jolts my system. Fingers open. Mirror drops.
Crash!
Ebony enters. “Nice one.” Her tone remains sarcastic as ever.
The mirror is in shards at my feet, the plastic frame now vacant of reflection. It’s not as if it was an expensive gift, but it was a gift just the same. A gift from Mom.
I miss her.
“Are you ready?” Ebony asks.
Her purse hangs from one elbow, as is her custom. She’s dressed in some of Mom’s old clothes—chocolate leggings, a pine-green sweater dress, ankle boots. Not Ebony’s style but more so than if she’d borrowed my things. How does she manage to appear as if she walked straight off the runway? Her rich brown hair falls softly past her shoulders, a just-brushed shine gleaming atop her crown like a halo. Clear skin. Sparkling eyes. Perfection.
Except nobody is perfect. No matter how much they seem so on the outside.
Ebony surveys the mess that is my room. In the past this would’ve bothered me. Her scrutiny. Judgment. Now I don’t care. My room is me. Deal with it.
“You upheld your end, now it’s my turn,” Ebony continues. “We should probably move to the back or the roof. More space to practice. Amulet was only the beginning.”
Practice. Right.
Later, I mouth. I try to slide past her, but she blocks my way.
“Where are you running off to?”
I move left and she echoes the move.
“Are you really going to see your man looking like a hobo-girl from the back alleys of Chinatown?”
I stop dead. A blush creeps to my cheeks. Brows furrow.
She slips her hand into her purse, withdraws Ky’s letter. “Found it on the sidewalk. Must’ve fallen from your pocket when we landed.”
How does she still manage to embarrass me? I wish I had some semblance of a voice so I could set her straight.
First of all, it’s bad form to read someone else’s mail.
And second, Ky is not my man.
He’s not.
Ebony is beside me now, dropping her purse and the letter onto the bed and sweeping my hair on top of my head in one motion. “Now hold still.” Before I can argue she’s behind me, removing my crown and twisting and pulling, tucking hairs in here and loosening some there. She takes my shoulders, spins me toward her, and begins on my face. Removes things from her bag to pat and dab, curl and brush. Stepping back, she examines her work, sweeping her fingertips over my eyebrows and wiping beneath my eyelids.
“There.” She leans away, narrowing her eyes. “Now you look on purpose. You’re welcome.” One by one her things return to her bag, all except for her silver compact, my crown, and the letter. She hands the compact over, snaps her purse closed, and waltzes out the door.
Privacy. Wow. How very unlike her to let me face my reflection alone. I push up the lip of the compact with my thumb. Stare. My hair sits in a messy bun atop my head, slightly off center, but somehow perfectly in place. Strands frame my face and ears, but my bangs are long enough to be pulled back now. My lashes are darker, fuller, my lips pink but not unnatural looking. My face is clean but not covered, my mirrormark standing out in all its crimson vines and music notes.
I’ve not worried much about the mark these past months. Since Joshua can’t see it, it’s almost as if it vanished altogether. But now, a reunion with Ky on the horizon, I almost want to hide. To pull my hair down and slink behind the curtain of my bangs.
And then a memory surfaces, faint and fragile, but there just the same.
Ky sweeping my hair off my face.
Smiling.
“Cool tattoo,” he’d said.
At the time I thought he was a nut job, but it turned out he was right. My mark ended up being so much more than I’d ever dreamed possible. A unique composition framing my eyes, playing the strings of my heart.
I smile and close the compact. I’m ready.
Almost.
I swipe Ky’s letter off the bed. I gaze down at the crown, which looks small and insignificant atop my mountain of covers and sheets. Instead of donning it once more, I shove it in my sock drawer for safekeeping. No reason to wear it where I’m going.
Next I steal the mirrorglass blade from Joshua’s Guardian jacket, which lies crumpled like a discarded candy wrapper on the floor. The letter gets folded again and again, then hidden in the compact, which I stuff in my pocket. But the knife, hmm . . . what to do? Whirl. Search. Think. Aha! Old sock to the rescue, it makes the perfect wrap. I don’t have a sheath or anything to make one with so I tuck the socked dagger in the back of my jeans. It’ll do for now.
In the kitchen Ebony is searching the cupboards, removing snacks and dropping them into her purse. I wish I’d thought to bring the pack Ky made me, but there wasn’t time. Oh well.
“Look what I found.” Ebony holds up a wad of cash. “You really ought to rethink your hiding spot. A cereal box, really? You might as well have hidden it in a cookie jar.”
I shrug and return to the foyer. Retrieve a couple jackets from the coatrack. Ebony is already opening the front door when I try to pass her a jacket.
Hair flipped over one shoulder, she makes a stopping motion with one hand. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather freeze than not match.”
Typical. I have to refrain from shaking my head. I drop one jacket on the floor and slip my arms through the other, my right arm shaking from the constant pain residing there now. It’s my jean jacket from middle school and fits a little snug. Wish I had my parka, but this is better than nothing.
When we’re out the door, I lock it and pocket the key. With a last glance at my home, my heart sinks. So much chaos ensued last fall, I didn’t get a proper good-bye. Now we head down the street, and it feels like the end of something. As we aim for the nearest subway entrance, I recall the lyrics to a Christina Perri song.
“This is not the end of me. This is the beginning.”
The words repeat over and over. I’ve always fought change, but sometimes things have to end. They disappear as if they never existed. Never were.
And only then can a new beginning . . . well . . . begin.
Eleventh Day, Ninth Month, Twenty-Second Year of Count VonKemp
Ky mentioned Countess Ambrose in his letter. Was Dimitri from the Fourth as well?
It is with a heavy heart I pen these words. Yet another dame has broken my heart. Yet another love lost at sea, if you will. Is there nothing strong enough to bind two people, heart and soul? Will no one ever remain?
So this was before he discovered the Kiss of Infinity. Interesting.
Tomorrow I set sail for a new Reflection. Perhaps it is there I will find what I have searched for my entire existence. Perhaps it is there true love waits.
I press the open book to my chest. True love. Do I believe in such a thing?
“Are you even listening to me?” Ebony elbows my rib cage as the train lurches forward.
I snap the book closed. Set it on my lap. Sigh. Nod.
“I said we need to go to Coney Island. If Ky was headed to the Fourth, that’s where he would’ve sailed from.” She crosses her legs. Smooths her sweater dress over her knee. “You need to brush up on your Reflection knowledge now that you’re queen, FYI. Everyone knows the nearest entrance to the Fourth is in the Atlantic.”
Maybe she can help me. I smile my thanks, trying to communicate my gratitude with my eyes.
She ignores the gesture. And why wouldn’t she? This is business, not friendship. We both want to be as far away from each other as possible when this is all over.
Don’t we?
It’s at least an hour before we reach the Coney Island stop at the south end of Brooklyn. Since it’s the dead of winter, Ebony and I are pretty much the only commuters to exit the train. This area of the city is mostly deserted. Dusty apartment buildings and hotels constructed of brown brick tower over us, casting wide, frigid shadows. The rides, games, and other attractions are closed for the season. Crushed soda cans, discarded cotton candy cones, and empty popcorn buckets litter the ground. I kick one and it hurtles into a vacant hot-dog stand.
I’ve only been here during the summer, when the wait to get on the Wonder Wheel is at least forty-five minutes long. When the cacophony of voices and music and Cyclone rider screams is so loud, I can’t hear myself think. But in the winter it’s a ghost town. Lively carousel music is nonexistent. No laughing children or popping balloons. Gone are the stilt-walkers, weight-guessers, and strongmen. We walk in silence, the sound of our shoes clap, clap, clapping the pavement.
Eerie.
When we’re nearly to the beach, I freeze. A single Coast Guard boat bobs just off the shore. Odd. Out of place. I veer toward it. Why would the Coast Guard be all the way down here this time of year?
I grin and slip beneath the railing separating concrete and sand. We’re close.
Ebony groans, staggering and sinking across the dunes in her unpractical ankle boots.
I’m faster in my black Converse sneakers. Moving, running, sprinting for the shore. I’m paces ahead of her now, but I can’t wait. He’s here. I feel it.
A wisp of another Ky memory returns. Standing on a much grander vessel with him, trying to escape a mob of Soulless. Me asking if he knows how to drive a ship. Him looking at me with one eyebrow raised, almost laughing as he replies, “You don’t drive a ship.”
There’s so much more to him than I’d allowed myself to believe.
Sand flings against my calves with each step. The shirt around my waist loosens and I cinch it tight. Almost there, a few more feet—
Someone grabs my arm, yanks me back, says in a thick Scottish brogue, “Well, what do we have here? A spy, is it?”
I twist and stare into the face of a dude with two missing teeth and an eyebrow piercing. Ratty dreadlocks frame his tan, leathery skin. Blue eyes so light the blacks almost seem to touch the whites glare at me.
Where did he come from? He just . . . appeared.
I lurch away. Ha-ha, very funny, El. Without your voice you’re nothing but an insignificant, five-foot-nothing girl.
His grip tightens. “Feisty, are we? We’ll see what the cap’n has ta say about tha’.” He lugs me through the shallows, then up, up . . . up? A ramp? This wasn’t here. I crane my neck. My mouth forms an O. Gasp.
Not the Coast Guard. A ship. A pirate ship. Holy Verity, it was hidden by a façade. I hang my head. I couldn’t even see it.
What is happening to me?
Dreads pitches me onto the deck.
Ouch. I back away crab-walk style. Brainless cretin.
“Who’s this, Streak?” a tinny female voice asks above me.
I glance up, squint. The clouds part and sunlight shines into my eyes. I shade them. A girl who can’t be much older than I am moves to the side, blocking the rays. Teased, fiery hair is pulled off her face into a half pony. Jet-black liner edges her robin-egg eyes. The corset-like bodice of her dress curves over her torso, feathers out into a colorful skirt made of ripped fabric scraps in shades of turquoise, mauve, and gray. Her body language suggests she has no doubt just how gorgeous—and intimidating—she is.
“Spy by the looks of it,” Dreadlocks—Streak?—informs Red. He withdraws a pocketknife, digs beneath his dirt-encrusted fingernails.
Gross.
“What do you reckon we do with her, Charley?”
“Throw her in the brig with the other spy, of course.” Charley nudges me with the toe of her boot as if I’m something she fished from the ocean. She whistles and two more men appear over the ramp, Ebony captured between them. “Captain Warren doesn’t tolerate spies,” Charley says. “He’ll deal with them once we’re out at sea.”
Brig? Sea? Captain? What have we gotten ourselves into?